


if you’ll prompt me

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, Bribery, Comfort, Confessions, Cuddling & Snuggling, Denial of Feelings, Drama, Drunkenness, Established Relationship, F/M, Fantasizing, Feelings, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Healing, Humor, Illnesses, Kissing, Letters, Love Confessions, Love Letters, Matchmaking, Mistletoe, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Puppies, Relationship Reveal, Romance Novel, Seduction, Slow Dancing, Soup, Staring, Teasing, Texting, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 00:26:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19240126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: A collection of unrelated theonxsansa drabbles, by request or for my own self-fulfillment. (@dancemajicdance on tumblr for prompts)





	1. tell me again

**ILY prompt: ‘slowly, the words dripping from your tongue like honey.’**

_for @soapieturner_

 

* * *

 

“What?” Sansa says, half-laughing because he must be joking, and only half because she wishes he wasn’t.

Theon’s grin comes slow and a little more like a smirk when he repeats himself — slow, deliberate, but somehow uncommonly sweet, too:

“I. Love. You.”

The words taste like relief as he lets them fall from his tongue, but still he has to roll his eyes when Sansa asks him, _again_ , to repeat himself.

“How many times d’you want me to say it?” he counters, still grinning, chuckling, even.

He scoots closer along the weathered bench they’re sharing on the boardwalk, where they’d sat to have their coffee and Sansa had been talking his ear off trying to convince him to see some new romantic comedy that absolutely no one else will go to, because Robb won’t admit he likes them and Rickon actually doesn’t, Bran’s already seen it and, okay, Arya will go, but —

“Only if I take her to that zombie one first,” Sansa had sighed, not two minutes ago. “And just — ugh, Theon, it’s _so_ gory, you can tell from the trailer alone, I don’t think I could stomach it.”

Theon had shrugged one shoulder, belying his amusement. “Maybe if you didn’t eat so many god damn licorice bits, you wouldn’t get sick.”

“You can leave me and my licorice bits alone to die, then, I’m not giving them up for anything.”

And that’s when Theon had said it. Shaking his head, laughing at her, it felt right to tell her _I_ _love you_ , even when they’d never so much as been out on a proper date.

No wonder she doesn’t believe him.

“As many times as it takes for you to realize it’s not funny,” Sansa answers his latest question.

“I’m not joking,” Theon insists, easy as can be. He stops scooting closer when their thighs touch, and he slides an arm over the back of the bench, around her shoulders. “I love you.”

“Like a sister?”

“Absolutely not.”

“As a friend, then.”

“Well, yes,” he has to concede, “but that’s not what I meant.”

Sansa’s eyes narrow, studying him for any missteps, any untruths. “The way I love licorice bits?”

He tilts his head in acknowledgement. “A little more on the, you know, sexy side. Otherwise, yeah, I reckon that sounds about right.”

Sansa just keeps right on looking at him, and Theon keeps right on grinning. Like he’s so pleased with himself, smug as ever, but there’s something like… contentment, too? she thinks. His shoulders are more relaxed, as if a weight’s been lifted and he’s visibly relieved not be carrying it around anymore.

“So if I said I love you too…” she starts to venture, but stops herself because she doesn’t quite know what she wants to ask. (Can she be blamed for that, though? Sansa thinks _not_. Her head is reeling, heart hammering, hopes skyrocketing.)

“Then I’d be impossible to live with,” Theon finishes off. He tugs at the end of her braid. “But also really, immeasurably happy, and seeing as I’m already impossible to live with, really, what have you got to lose?”

Sansa opens her mouth to argue that, but in truth he’s right — she’s got _nothing_ to lose. He’s already said it three times, hasn’t he?

“I love you, too,” she returns, and it’s easy and natural and sweeter than two handfuls of licorice bits at once.

“Good.” Even more self-satisfied now — and so relieved that she’d said it back — Theon slips his hand into hers and pulls them both to their feet. “Now that’s settled, I’ll take you to see your movie. And I’ll get your damn candy, too.”

“Really know how to sweep a girl off her feet, don’t you?” Sansa remarks drily, meanwhile her heart somersaults when Theon squeezes her fingers.

“Too late for regrets now, Stark,” he sighs, too exaggerated to be taken seriously, as he steers her up the boardwalk. Their hips bump when he tugs her forward, so that they match each other step for step. “You said it back, and now you’re stuck with me.”

“A grave mistake.”

“Don’t tease me, woman.”

This time, when Sansa laughs, it’s well more than just some half-hearted thing.


	2. may i have this dance?

**insp. by the francis & the lights song of the same name**

 

* * *

 

“Come on, then.” Theon tugs on her hand, pulling her with him onto the gleaming parquet floor. “Dance with me.”

“I can’t dance, I’m sloshed,” Sansa laments, but she follows him nevertheless.

He folds her into his arms, one hand holding hers just slightly aloft as he leads her in a slow, easy sway, head tucked beneath his chin so she can grumble into his crisp white shirtfront.

“Don’t I know it, love,” he murmurs, close to her ear so no one else can hear. Though they likely wouldn’t, over the music, the laughter, the clinking of glasses… “Everyone else is gonna start noticing it, too, if you don’t stay on your feet. You’re not nearly the most snockered here, but —”

“Auntie Lysa’s been looking for a reason to cause a scene, I know,” Sansa finishes for him. She hiccups somewhere ‘round the middle and Theon chuckles into her hair. “It’s her fault I’ve gotten this drunk in the first place, if she hadn’t been harping on and on at me all night about why I can’t manage to hold down a proper man —”

“You haven’t been with a proper man, that’s why.”

“That doesn’t make me feel _better_ , Theon,” she whines, lipstick smearing his collar. She hopes he won’t mind it. “That’s _worse_.”

“Shh, love.” Another chuckle. His hand winds into her artfully-waved hair. “I’ve been right proper for you, haven’t I?”

Sansa leans back, just far enough to look at him. He’s holding her so close that she couldn’t break apart from him if she tried, besides.

She likes it that way, with him.

“You want to be a right proper man for me, Theon Greyjoy?” she teases him, words dripping with the aftereffects of a few too many champagne-soaked strawberries.

“Mhmm.” He’s grinning, eyes all for her. His hand strokes hers, gentle swipes of his thumb over her knuckles, down to the pulse in her wrist and back up again. “Thought I was doing alright for myself the past few weeks. Don’t think I’ve gotten self-loathing and told you I’m not good enough for you in three days, at least.”

“At least,” Sansa affirms. “You gonna right proper kiss me, then?”

“In a minute.” Theon hums, pulls her a little closer so he can whisper in her ear again. His hand in her hair tightens. “Did I ever tell you how much I like it when you wear your hair like this? All down your back, so I can get my hands in it…”

He nips at her earlobe. “Makes me think of what it looks like spread across my pillow.”

Sansa rubs at the lipstick stain on his collar. “You still want me like that when I’ve gone and ruined your shirt?”

“Love, I don’t even _like_ this shirt.” Theon drops a kiss to her cheek, lingering longer than he probably should, but he’s long past caring whether Robb or Lysa throw a fit over his relationship with Sansa (Robb’s fits are at least funny, but Lysa can fuck right off). “Even if I did, I’d still want you. I always bloody want you.”

Sansa groans into his shoulder — a dramatic, playful sound. “You _are_ a right proper man. The best sort.”

“Only for you,” Theon promises.

He spins them, just once so that Sansa doesn’t sick up all over her new dress and those wildly expensive shoes he absolutely wants her to wear the next time he fucks her. He’d told her that, too, several times tonight, and she’d laughed every time.

“You could have me right now, if you like,” Sansa invites. Her lips brush his stubble, making them both shiver.

“Not tonight, my love.” Theon kisses her temple now. “You’re sloshed, remember? I’ve got to nurse you back to health, haven’t I?”

That pulls another whine from Sansa. “Stop _flirting_ with me, then, if you’re not even going to take me back to yours and snog me.”

“Oh, I’m still taking you back to mine and snogging you,” he assures her, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “But that’s _it_ , so don’t even think about getting handsy with me until the morning, you hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t use that tone on me, either, else I _will_ try to have my wicked way with you in the loos.”

This time, Theon swallows her laughter when he places a great smacking kiss right on her lips. He comes back wearing a shade of coral on his own that’s not quite his colour, though Sansa thinks it rather fetching.

“Now stop misbehaving and let me dance with you a little while longer.”

“One more song,” Sansa agrees, and snuggles against him once more. She presses her lips to the hollow at the base of his throat, breathing him in all the while. _Sea water and coconut and mine, all mine._ “Maybe two.”

Theon smiles into her hair, and curls his fingers into the ends of it. Another kiss to her temple, where she smells like the vanilla perfume she’d spritzed on earlier. _And a little bit like me, too_ , he thinks, because she’d been in his bed with him all afternoon.

“Mhmm,” he hums again, too content to leave just yet, so long as he’s got Sansa wrapped up in his arms. “Maybe two.”


	3. your kiss is on my list

**title from the hall & oates song of the (basically) same name**

 

* * *

 

 **THEON** : i’ve made a list

 **BRAN** : I suppose that’s helpful for some people.

 **THEON** : wow first of all check the passive-aggressive attitude, wtf?? i’m having enough of a personal crisis without your lowkey i’m-better-than-you comments, damn

 **BRAN** : I was commending your motivation to organize, but go off, I guess.

 **THEON** : you’re such a shit, bran

 **BRAN** : This is a really backwards way of asking for my help.

 **THEON** : who said i need your help???

 **BRAN** : Oh, you /absolutely/ need my help.

 **THEON**. _typing…_

 **BRAN** : Sigh. Tell me about your list, Theon.

 **THEON** : ………FINE.

 **THEON** : so i made this list  
of all the things that are wrong with sansa

 **BRAN** : And there’s nothing on it.

 **THEON** : CHRIST how many times do i have to tell you not to use your voodoo psychic powers on me?? i hate that shit

 **BRAN** : I don’t need ‘voodoo psychic powers’ — and there’s a lot wrong with that implication, by the way, but we’ll talk about your cultural and supernatural ignorance some other time — to tell me that you wouldn’t get past writing ‘Things That Are Wrong With Sansa’ without suffering some sort of emotional collapse. All I need to determine that is common sense.

 **THEON** : ……you know what, i think i’d prefer the conversation about what a culturally insensitive dumbass i am

 **BRAN** : Mhmm.

 **THEON** : why does she have to be perfect, bran?

 **BRAN** : Genetics.

 **THEON** : HA  
if that were the case, then arya would be taller and robb wouldn’t be such an idiot

 **BRAN** : What about me and Rickon?

 **THEON** : rickon’s fifteen, he gets a pass for all the unfortunate things about him  
as for you, i need your help so for the purposes of this conversation you’re perfect too

 **BRAN** : I knew it.

 **THEON** : YOU KNOW EVERYTHING  
SOMEHOW  
ALWAYS  
I HATE IT

 **BRAN** : No, not ‘everything.’ I know you need my help, but that’s just an overarching theme of your life. But I don’t know how I can help you with your wild infatuation with my sister.

 **THEON** : TELL ME ALL THE THINGS THAT ARE WRONG WITH HER  
because all i’ve got so far is ‘i want to kiss her and i can’t’  
and that doesn’t COUNT

 **BRAN** : Well, I’m afraid your list has got it right.

 **THEON** : you’re supposed to be HELPING ME  
that’s the least helpful thing you’ve ever said

 **BRAN** : What can I say otherwise? She’s objectively pretty, smarter than anyone else any of us knows, she’s uncommonly kind, unfailingly compassionate, dead clever, she has impeccable fashion sense, and she’s so eerily intuitive about the best hair care products for every person and situation that, really, you should be shouting at /her/ about ‘voodoo psychic powers.’ So, yes, I could see where you get ‘perfect’ from all that.

 **THEON** : ?????????  
I KNOW  
THAT’S THE PROBLEM  
also  
““objectively”” pretty??? she’s the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen, go fuck yourself

 **BRAN** : What an unnecessarily hostile thing to say to me, her BROTHER.

 **THEON** : WHATEVER  
I GUESS

 **BRAN** : Honestly, Theon, you’ve fancied Sansa for ages. This is, by my estimate, the ninety thousandth conversation we’ve had about it. Why not have the conversation with her instead, and leave me out of it?

 **THEON** : oh HA  
HA  
HA  
surely you jest

 **BRAN** : I surely do not.

 **THEON** : well that’s your problem, then

 **BRAN** : You’re being woefully belligerent for someone who, again, needs my help.

 **THEON** : ““woefully belligerent”” ????

 **BRAN** : Yes. You’re being kind of a dick and you’re going to be sorry for it.

 **THEON** : yeah? what are you gonna do about it?  
stick push-pins into the crude doll of me you made because you’ve got nothing better to do than be weird?

**_BRAN STARK added SANSA STARK to the chat_ **

**THEON** : BRAN  
WAIT  
NO

 **SANSA** : …What?

**_BRAN STARK left the chat_ **

**THEON** : oh my gOD  
I WAS STRESSED  
I GET PISSY WHEN I’M STRESSED  
THAT’S IT  
DON’T DO THIS TO ME

 **SANSA** : He’s already left, Theon. He won’t be getting any of those messages.

 **THEON** : OH HE KNOWS THOUGH  
HE KNOWS

 **SANSA** : You don’t have to shout, love, I can hear you just fine in lowercase.

 **THEON** : LOWERCASE CANNOT POSSIBLY CONVEY THE LEVEL OF PANIC I AM FEELING RIGHT NOW

 **SANSA** : Do those breathing exercises we took that obscenely overpriced course in.

 **THEON** : pfft so much for ‘stress relief’ that course just added to our stress levels, didn’t it?  
i still don’t think dr. jaqen h’ghar was a real doctor, i don’t care what arya says

 **SANSA** : Not to pour salt in your wounds, but you do know Arya only recommended the class to us as a joke, don’t you?

 **THEON** : _typing…_

 **THEON** : NO???  
WHAT

 **SANSA** : She may have been mildly upset with me at the time, because I suggested a particular hair product to Gendry that worked wonders for him, but smelled more strongly of guava than actual guava.

 **THEON** : i’m… not following

 **SANSA** : Arya hates guava. And I mean wholly, properly hates it. She couldn’t hang ‘round Gendry when he used it, so she had to tell him to chuck it and when he asked why, she also had to tell him ‘because I can’t snog you when you smell like fruit.’

 **THEON** : ……

 **SANSA** : So, long story short and as you know, they’re together now. Arya was just cross over the ridiculous way that it happened, but it was the most effective thing I could think up.

 **THEON** : you are the weirdest evil genius i’ve ever met

 **SANSA** : Thank you. :) Now, are you feeling better?

 **THEON** : that was nearly distracting enough but i’m afraid it just can’t beat my champion-level anxiety and panic

 **SANSA** : What is it you’re panicking about, exactly?

 **THEON** : haven’t you read this thread??  
i adore you, sansa, but you’re a sucker for your own curiosity

 **SANSA** : Yes, obviously I’ve read it. And I still don’t know what you’re panicking about, which should tell you right there that there’s nothing for you to panic about at all.

 **THEON** : _typing…_

 **THEON** : oh

 **SANSA** : ‘Oh,’ indeed.

 **THEON** : so that means

 **THEON** : OH.

 **SANSA** : Yes. So. You want to kiss me, hm?

 **THEON** : ha  
yes  
wrote it down and everything

 **SANSA** : Theon, you know I couldn’t live with myself if I let something go unchecked on a to-do list.

 **THEON** : _typing…_

 **SANSA** : That’s the only reason to make a to-do list at all, isn’t it? To cross things off and feel immensely satisfied with yourself?

 **THEON** : _typing…_

 **SANSA** : Honestly, it sounds like this one would immensely satisfy me, too, so…

 **THEON** : I’M ALREADY ON MY WAY

 **SANSA** : Are those panic capslock again?

 **THEON** : NOPE  
EAGER ENTHUSIASTIC CAPSLOCK

 **SANSA** : Much better. x

 

*****

 

 **BRAN** : New topic for the family group chat debate: Sansa is good at everything. Yay or nay?

 **ARYA** : obviously yay

 **RICKON** : duh

 **ROBB** : Yay. She learned it all from me

 **JON** : She’s a right side smarter than you, Robb

 **ROBB** : Shut up, Jon

 **JON** : ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

 **GENDRY** : yay by virtue of the guava hair product alone

 **ARYA** : shut up, gendry

 **GENDRY** : xx

 **SANSA** : ??? I object to this topic.

 **THEON** : yeah it’s not even a debate  
ofc she’s perfect

 **TALISA** : Don’t go putting Sansa on a pedestal, now, you know she doesn’t like it.

 **SANSA** : /Thank you/, Talisa.

 **TALISA** : Of course, darling, but they’re right, you know.

 **ROBB** : LOL wifey ftw

 **RICKON** : sansa if you want to be bad at something, just pick something and mess it up  
maybe there’s something you’re already bad at and you don’t even know

 **ARYA** : right, maybe you can’t, like, beatbox or something else that doesn’t matter ever at all GENDRY

 **GENDRY** : don’t mind her, everyone, she’s just cross because i can do it and she can’t

 **ARYA** : W/E

 **BRAN** : There must be something. Theon? Any thoughts?

 **THEON** : _typing…_

 **THEON** : thoughts?  
about sansa?  
me??  
no  
never  
none at all  
why would you even ask me, of all people

 **BRAN** : *shrug* You’re the meanest.

 **THEON** : first of all ARYA’S the meanest

 **ARYA** : hey, yeah  
fuck you guys

 **GENDRY** : good save, babe

 **BRAN** : Really, though, Theon. I’m sure there’s something you know about.

 **THEON** : _typing…_

 **SANSA** : Bran, what are you doing?

 **ROBB** : ???? Is something happening here or ??

 **BRAN** : I mean, does she hog the covers? Or take your shirts with no intention of returning them? Play her music too loud in the mornings? Has she happened to burn the toast?

 **THEON** : _typing…_

 **ROBB** : _typing…_

 **BRAN** : Is she a bad kisser?

 **THEON** : no she’s good at that, too

 **ARYA** : shsjdjdksksjjd wHAT

 **RICKON** : ew what

 **THEON** : what

 **ROBB** : |||WHAT|||

 **SANSA** : SIGH. /Honestly/, Bran…

 **BRAN** : >:D

 **ROBB** : WHAT


	4. stay, just a little bit longer

**dialogue prompt: ‘stay there. i’m coming to get you.’**

(title: maurice williams & the zodiacs)

_for @joygreys_

 

* * *

 

It’s two in the morning when Sansa’s phone vibrates on the coffee table, next to where she’d just about nodded off on the couch. She likes to nod off there, no pressure, because her bed’s too _big_ and too heavy with expectation.

 **THEON** : i think i’ve fucked up

 **SANSA** : Where are you? Are you safe?

He doesn’t answer both questions in so many words. But when he drops his location, Sansa has the answer to the second one, anyway.

 **SANSA** : Stay there. I’m coming to get you.

The cemetery’s not a terribly far drive from her flat, and Sansa takes the backroads at a break-neck speed she’d balk at under normal circumstances. But this isn’t _normal_ , it’s Theon at two in the morning and she swears she could hear the break in his voice in nothing more than a text.

He _needs_ her, and she needs him. So she steps on the gas because that’s all there is to do.

It takes her six minutes to get there and park, and half as many to find Theon near the end of the winding, tree-lined path. It’s a small cemetery, a short walk, but the summer night is balmy so she’s covered in a fine sheen of sweat by the time she finds him.

He’s standing, not kneeling in the overgrown grass as she’d feared, the way she’s found him here before.

Not this time.

This time, he’s standing tall, shoulders only slightly shaking when she smooths her hands over them. His own hands are clenched into fists, trembling too, she can feel it when she comes in close and one presses against her thigh.

But then, with the feel of her heated skin against his, his hand relaxes; and callused, careful fingers caress her bare thigh.

The gravestone in front of them is as it’s ever been — black marble, imposing, not yet weathered enough to soothe away the wounds the buried left behind.

 _Soon, though_ , Sansa vows, a silent promise she murmurs into Theon’s neck when she plants a kiss there.

It’s a dark shadow in the wee hours of the morning, that gravestone. Eerie, threatening, just as the man himself had been, except…

_Except._

Thick, garish yellow egg yolk drips from it, drying in the crevices of his name and the years he’d lived:

 _Ramsay Bolton_ , and only twenty-eight of them under his belt.

“This isn’t so bad,” Sansa tells Theon. He’d only egged a headstone, after all; plenty of the locals got away with plenty worse, and it’s not as though he’d be found out. Ramsay had made his enemies, and there had been no one left to mourn him. “It’s only a few eggs. So I’ll make you bacon sandwiches for your breakfast tomorrow, that’s nothing.”

Theon laughs — a short, watery thing. “I wish it were his blood on my hands, you know. Not eggs.” His voice goes quieter, colder, so that it cuts through the humidity like the sharpened end of an icicle. “I wish I would’ve killed him for you.”

“And for you,” Sansa whispers back. He tightens his hold on her thigh. “But he’s dead. It doesn’t matter how. He’s gone.”

A long, shuddering breath. She can feel his chest relax, his heart slow. “He’s gone,” Theon repeats, the sound of realization and relief, even so many months later.

“He’s gone,” Sansa says again, because she knows how much it means to hear these things. “He’s _gone_ , Theon. But I’m not, and neither are you.”

Only a heartbeat separates her words from his reaction to them. Then, all at once, Theon turns, he pivots into her, and captures her lips in a hot, desperate kiss that feels like he’s just been waiting to do this, now that they can.

And, Sansa thinks as her hands curl into his shirtfront, and his sticky egg yolk grip takes her waist, she’s been waiting for him, too.

They haven’t got to wait anymore. They can stay here, stay anywhere, just like this, _together_ , for as long as they like.

(Neither of them say so just yet, but _forever’s_ looking pretty good to the both of them.)


	5. underneath the mistletoe

**dialogue prompt: ‘close your eyes and hold out your hands.’**

a/n: we about to get all ‘christmas in june’ out here bc i just can’t help myself OKAY okay

_for @anniebibananie_

 

* * *

 

Sansa eyes him suspiciously, but Theon just keeps right on grinning — all lips, no teeth, like the handsomest Muppet she’s ever seen.

He’s got _some nerve_ , really.

“I’m not doing that,” she says, resolutely as she’s able because Theon tends to make her go weak in the knees. But she doesn’t trust it, his request for her to _close your eyes and hold out your hands_ , because he likes to joke and it makes her nervous (just like most everything about him, come to think on it).

“What’ve you got? Silly string? No.” She waves away her own speculation. “You would’ve just come straight at me with that. A spider, maybe?”

Theon’s hands shift behind his back, but he pulls a face when she makes her guess. “No, what d’you take me for? Arya’s the only one who’d pull something like that, and she wouldn’t do it to you, besides. Me, sure, and she’d record it, too, and use my alto shrieks against me at every turn.”

“What are you whinging for?” Sansa wants to know, mostly to distract him from whatever he’s hiding from her. “You’ve got a lovely voice.”

He snorts. “Not when I’m screaming, I haven’t.”

Then he winks. _Bloody flirt._ “Unless it’s your name, that is, if only you’d ever give me the time of day.”

Oh, she’d give him the time of day, alright. Mornings, afternoons, nights, whenever he fancies, so long as he fancies _her_.

She’s still not quite sold on the not-a-spider, though.

Theon sees it on her face, hesitation scrawled into the lift of her eyebrow and the downward tilt of her mouth. He softens, the way he always does when she needs him to, and says — all gentle and coaxing and it makes her _melt_ because he means it — “Go on, then, love, you know I’d never do a thing to hurt you.”

And he wouldn’t, truly. So Sansa takes a leap of faith, and she sees the way it makes him smile right before she does as he asks — eyes shut, hands held aloft, patiently awaiting whatever he’s got to give.

“So help me gods, if it’s a spider…” But Theon laughs away her warning, and Sansa can’t help but laugh a little, too. Anticipation and nerves and the subtle scent of Theon’s cologne, all that.

A bundle of something-or-other is dropped into her hands then, mostly soft but a little prickly, too, but it’s not _moving_ so Sansa doesn’t mind it.

Theon’s moving, though. One step closer, then another — she can feel his feet shuffle around hers, the ghost of his shirt against hers, the brush of his thumb across her cheek and the tickle of his breath on her lips when he says —

“Open your eyes, Sansa.”

There’s no hesitation this time. She wouldn’t be able to stand it.

When she does as he bids — as he pleads, quite honestly, the touch of hopefulness in his voice had been too much to miss — he’s still smiling. Tremulously now, like he’s not sure what she’ll make of this, but he _hopes_.

Sansa’s gaze flicks to her hands, nearly crushed between her and Theon now, but not in an uncomfortable way so much as it is secure. As it’s _home_.

“It’s…” She examines the bunch of green in between her fingers, a little puzzled. “Mistletoe.”

The bob of Theon’s throat brings her eyes back to his.

“Yeah.” He swallows again, as if he means to take back all the words he’s said if they’re not to her liking. “It is.”

Her brow furrows. “It’s June.”

Theon laughs again, not the sort he had a moment ago, but a shaky chuckle she’s never heard from him before. “Yeah, it’s that, too.”

“But —”

 _“Sansa,”_ he interrupts her, all shaky laughter and clear desperation and the disbelief that he could be feeling both at once. His fingers circle her wrists. “Sansa, I want to kiss you, that’s what this is, I thought it would be maybe clever and dead romantic and I didn’t want to wait ‘til Christmas, I —”

She cuts off his rambling then, not with words or jokes or rejections, because none of those would do.

Instead, she cuts him off with a kiss — _the_ kiss, the one he’d been after, the one she’s been saving for him, the one that’s _it_ , first and foremost and finally.

Sansa tastes his sigh of relief when their lips part, inviting one another in, and she feels the delightful spark in every corner of her body when Theon touches her just once. His hand on her jaw, his mouth on hers, hearts beating in rapid-sweet-relief time…

It’s not a spider behind his back at all, not even close. It’s _Christmas_ , half a year before it’s due.

Sansa’s never been so happy to have closed her eyes and taken the leap. She’d fallen for Theon, and he’d fallen right there with her.


	6. i’m so scared to fall in love, but if it’s you…

**ILY prompt: ‘with no space left between us.’**

(title: ‘it’s you,’ by ali gatie)

_for @thesushimonster_

 

* * *

 

She’s not usually the one who gets shit-faced drunk, and he’s not usually the one who watches out for anybody that does. Usually, it’s the other way ‘round.

Tonight, though, finds a sober Theon Greyjoy carefully leading — half-carrying, really, but he doesn’t mind — a completely plastered Sansa Stark into his flat and towards the squashy couch in the lounge. Her place is another twenty, thirty minutes out, and she’d mumbled and groaned about how all she wanted was an order of chips and to sleep ‘til noon tomorrow.

Theon’s never been one to deny her, so he’d stopped at the drive-through and brought her home. The chips are long gone by now, which is probably why Sansa looks happier than she had all night.

“Off you go, darling,” he says, as he tries to deposit her onto the couch, but she hangs tighter to him and shakes her head, all vehemence and sugar and cherry blossoms.

Theon tries to ignore the way her hair tickles his face, the way she twists his stomach up in knots, but he _can’t_ because he’s bloody well in love with her, isn’t he?

“What is it?” he asks, throat dry but still he manages.

She slurs about a shower and cleaning her teeth. He’s got a bottle of her shampoo here and a spare toothbrush, and he knows how wretched she feels after a night of drinking the next day if she doesn’t tidy herself up first, so…

Five minutes later sees Theon leaning against the sink while she’s behind the plastic oceanic curtain (which she’d bought him as a housewarming gift when he’d got his own place). He would’ve left her to it, but for all her sober grace, Sansa’s a clumsy drunk when she’s got herself sloppy like she did tonight.

Not that he could blame her for it. Not at all. But he’s not going to leave her unattended when the potential for head injury is so high.

She makes it through the shower without any to-do, thank the gods. She’s still behind the curtain and the faucet’s dripping when she says, all hushed self-consciousness (not like her in the least), “Am I an idiot for getting drunk over this?”

“No,” Theon answers at once, as vehemently as she’d shaken her head scant minutes earlier. “No, my love, Harry’s the idiot. Anybody who steps out on you like that is a prat and a half. I’ll tell him, if you like. I’ll knock his teeth out, if you’d like that, too.”

Truth be told, he’d almost done it already, when they’d caught Harry in the crowded pub, with his hand up some other bird’s skirt like he hadn’t been wining and dining Sansa for the past six months.

(The absolutely most wretched six months of Theon’s life, by the by, but that hadn’t stopped him from wanting to pummel Harry’s smarmy trust fund face in. But Sansa needed him more, so he’d settled on flipping him off and taking her by the waist, leading her to the bar and putting her on his tab.)

He passes a towel through the gap in the shower curtain, and Sansa grasps his hand for a moment, not much but enough for him to love her more, somehow, if such a thing were even possible.

“You’re the best man I know,” she tells him, “did you know that?”

“I’m nothing special,” Theon says. And then, because he means it, because she needs to hear it, “But you are.”

They’re quiet after that, exchanging nothing but what’s necessary as Sansa collects herself and cleans her teeth, as he gives her a shirt to sleep in and takes her back out to the lounge. He’d offered his bed — not with him in it, he wouldn’t dare presume — but she’d shaken it off.

Once she’s settled, though, she tugs on his hand. “You could stay, if you wanted,” she offers, but she’d never presume, either. “I know your bed’s a right side better, but… could you stay close to me, please? Only if you —”

“‘Course I will, love,” he agrees, heart aching even as he soothes away her anxieties, just as she’s done for him so many times before. “Budge up, then, make room.”

She does so, just as content as Theon feels when she drapes herself over him. Face-to-face, no space left to breathe but they do, they breathe each other in, all her shampoo and his body wash and spearmint toothpaste. One of Sansa’s arms and legs is slung over him, waist and hip, and Theon’s arm winds ‘round her back, fingers tangled up in her hair. She likes her hair played with, and he’s always been over-the-moon to oblige her there.

She sighs, deep and relieved, and sinks into him. He can’t help it then (or ever, truth be told, and he’ll tell it if he feels like she wants to hear it), and nuzzles into her right back.

This isn’t an uncommon place for Theon and Sansa to find themselves in together, though it had been all but nonexistent this past half-year. It had gone unspoken, but Theon knew she didn’t feel right about cuddling him when there was Harry to consider — not that the prick had considered _her_ , as they’d so abruptly learned tonight.

Harry wasn’t a cuddler, besides. Theon knew the guy’s reputation, and both Arya and Margaery had been making leading comments about his penchant to ‘hit it and quit it ‘til he feels like hitting it again’ the entire time Sansa was seeing him. It made Theon’s blood boil, his hands tense, to think that Sansa wasn’t getting what she needed, what she wanted, when he was _right there_ and he could give her everything if she wanted to ask him for it.

As if reading his thoughts, Sansa murmurs, a good deal steadier than she’d been before her shower, but no less rambling, “I’ve missed you. You’re my best friend, you know? I don’t think I’ve been treating you fair.”

Theon swallows the lump in his throat, or tries to, because it doesn’t go anywhere. “That’s alright, darling.”

“It’s not.” She sighs, heavy, her breath hot on his collar, but the heat makes him shiver. She feels it, and holds him tighter, closer. “I was trying to be good, but it turns out I’m at my best when I’m with you. I just… I didn’t want to spoil things by telling you I’d like things to be… _more_. I thought I could get over it, but that was stupid, _I_ was stupid to think that I could get over you.”

“I —” Theon doesn’t know where he’s going with this. His heart’s beating so hard, and he’s sure Sansa can feel it, because her hand’s moved to his chest and she’s got her grip twisted into the soft cotton of his shirt. “Before I — Sansa, how sloshed are you? You alright, after the chips and all that?”

“I’m rather sober now,” she assures him.

He nods, short and a tad jerky. She’s an easy drunk, sure, but she can pull it together just as quick.

“Alright, then, I’ll tell you…” A deep breath, his thumb stroking the long red tresses between his fingers. “You haven’t got to get over me, Sansa. Not if you don’t want to. Because I don’t want to get over you. I’ve not even tried. And I’m sorry, too, I should’ve —”

“I should’ve, too,” she interrupts him, lips catching on the slope of his shoulder. “I just didn’t think I deserved what I wanted, I s’pose.”

Now it’s he who holds her tighter, and whispers into the no-space left between them, “Same here.”

Face-to-face, no space left to breathe and they don’t, not really, because they’re both waiting for the world to come crumbling in on them again, the way it always has, with disappointments and unmet expectations and foolish dreams.

But the world stays just as it is, all cherry blossoms and ocean breezes and tentative touches to soft-smiling faces.

“I love you,” Sansa says, soft and sure against his trembling lips. “You know that too, don’t you?”

“I do now,” he breathes, a rush of relief and gratitude and the wild, near-irrepressible urge to cry. “And you know I love you too, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, in just the same rush as he’d been. Their lips mold together, all sweet spearmint and a taste of salt from unshed tears, no space left for hesitation, mistakes, for holding back, just enough for Sansa to tell him, “Yeah, I do.”

Theon still wants to knock out Harry Hardyng’s stupid straight teeth for hurting her, but in the end he’s more than alright with mending the wounds himself.

He’s better for her, anyway — the best, even, to hear Sansa tell it, and that’s quite enough to be getting on with.


	7. what’s a nice girl like you doing in a mind like mine?

**word prompt: ‘gymnophoria’ (the sensation that someone is mentally undressing you)**

_for @joygreys (and a shoutout to @thesushimonster, bc i nabbed the title from her pick-up line drabble)_

 

* * *

 

Theon is looking at her.

Again.

A lot.

_Incessantly._

Sansa doesn’t know why.

Or, rather, she feels like she might know, maybe, possibly, but then that could be the wishful thinking talking, because she’s come to terms with the fact that she fancies him — this once lanky, irritating best friend of her elder brother, and in fact Theon is still all of these things. It’s just that Sansa has learned to like him, because he happens to be _more_ than all those things, as well.

So maybe it’s only that she _wants_ him to be looking at her the way she _thinks_ he’s looking at her.

It’s not a logical thing, this thought of hers; she hasn’t come to the supposition based on anything analytical or even plainly sensible. It’s just a _feeling_ , one that’s settled into her skin and snuggled down into her bones, but —

She thinks, perhaps, that Theon is looking at her like he wants to get her naked. Like he’s thinking about just exactly how to do that.

He could just _ask_ , and she’d drop this dress as soon as they could find a coat closet far enough away from the party to be wise.

But she suspects he’s not going to do that, as he seems quite pleased to simply stare at her from the other side of the room, nursing his single glass of scotch or brandy or some other caramel-coloured drink that tastes nothing like caramel at all, leant against the bar as he chats idly with Robb and Jon and anyone else who stops by.

He really shouldn’t be looking at her like that whilst talking to her brother. She’d say she doesn’t know where he gets the nerve, but this is Theon, after all; he’s always had the nerve.

So he stares, all stormy sea eyes glinting with the smirk that’s been toying with one corner of his mouth ever since she caught his eye. Like he wants her to know precisely what he’s thinking as his gaze roams from the top of her plaited head right down to the toes of her strappy kitten heels.

It’s so unyielding, so _intense_ , she can practically feel his hands on her.

_Unbinding her hair, running his fingers through it, down to her shoulders, tracing her collarbone. Stroking the thin straps of her dress as he loosens them, ghosts them down her arms. Dancing a feather-light touch down the curve of her waist, all tease and promise._

_Gripping the skirt and shimmying it up up up, then letting it drop as he runs his hands down to her knee. Rubbing his palms in slow circles lower and lower on her calf, ‘til he reaches her shoes and unclasps them with his teeth —_

_And then kisses his way back up her body, all languid caresses of his lips, the scratch of his stubble along her thighs, her stomach, as his tongue dips just for a moment beneath the band of her panties. Up up_ up _again, the press of his mouth on her breasts, to the pulse point at her throat, where he’d feel it hammer and he’d kiss her harder to match it…_

It’s too much. Sensory overload, and he hasn’t even touched her. He’s clear across the bloody room.

Sansa doesn’t know how long she’s been staring right back at him. Theon adjusts the collar of his shirt, like it’s too tight, too _hot_ , and she’s just thinking about undoing his tie when she licks her lips. He tracks the movement of her tongue, she can see the flick of his eyes from here, and then he does the same.

Her phone chirps in her pocket (the best thing about making her own clothes is that she’s free to sew as many discreet pockets as strike her fancy), and she finds his number on her screen.

 **THEON** : your place or mine?

A bold move, she thinks, but impressive too, as she’d been too focused on the bob of his throat to notice he’d texted her ‘til now.

But when she looks over at him again, it’s to find his eyebrow cocked and a widened smile. His gaze rakes over her once more, slow and purposeful and appreciative, and there’s no way he doesn’t notice the way she shivers, like she can already feel his breath on her skin.

 **SANSA** : Mine’s closer.

 **THEON** : after you, then, love

She slips out of the hall, not bothering with goodbyes because the party’s crowded and everyone’s too preoccupied with their drinks or their dates or their own droll selves to notice her gone. Also because she can’t be bothered to care.

When she reaches the end of the hall, Theon’s waiting for her, having slipped out the back. He’s leaning against the wall, all ease, but his eyes darken with every _click_ of her heels as she gets closer to him.

“Nice dress,” he murmurs when she’s near enough to hear it. His gaze lingers on the sweetheart neckline, then on the delicate lace hem, before his eyes come back to hers. He grins, lopsided yet intentional. “Can’t wait to get you out of it.”

Sansa doesn’t stop walking, just catches him by the end of his tie and drags him along behind her, out the doors and on the way to making all those errant-yet-quite- _deliberate_ thoughts in her head — and his too, she’s sure — into a reality.

“Neither can I.”


	8. carbohydrate kisses

Sansa is having… not a great day.

Theon knows it as soon as he walks through her door, and hears her banging ‘round the kitchen, mumbling incoherently to herself, a mile a minute, because evidently she’s so bothered that she’s got a million things to say about it and they all need to be said _immediately_.

If she was still nothing but Robb’s little sister to him — but she hadn’t been _only that_ to him for years now, ever since her boyfriend ditched her the night of their leavers’ ball, the absolute prick, and Theon had stepped in, gallant and cocksure and just a little bit obsessed with how pretty she’d looked in her sea-green sequins (like a _mermaid_ , honest to god), and then they’d been friends, closer with each passing year, and now…

Well, now Theon doesn’t quite know where his thoughts have gone, except to wonder if she’s still got that dress.

He knows better than to ask right now, though, when he pops his head into her kitchen doorway and finds her making several kinds of pasta at once.

“Tremendous amounts of carbs are the only remedy to extreme bouts of rage,” she’d told him once, on the second occasion he’d caught her elbow-deep in multicoloured rotini and couldn’t bear the not-knowing any longer.

This is the fifth time he’s seen it with his own eyes and known what it meant, so Theon thinks it best to proceed with caution.

“Hullo, love,” he greets her, not too cheerfully or soothing, lest she accuse him of patronizing her in her current state. They’ve been dating (he thinks, sort of, perhaps? He’s going to need to ask her about that) for long enough that she’s quite comfortable chewing him out when she sees fit. “Alright?”

 _“No,”_ Sansa bites out. She dumps an entire box of pasta into one of the pots on the stove. “Not in the slightest.”

Theon sidles further into the kitchen, slow and easy, as if he were approaching a ravenous jungle cat — which, he supposes, is close enough to the reality of the situation. “Want to talk about it?”

“My boss is a lech.”

He frowns, hands halfway to her shoulders. She’s tense, he can tell that much, and he can feel it too when his hands settle there and he starts to rub that tension away. She melts, just a little.

“You should quit,” Theon tells her, not for the first time. “Baelish is —”

“I know,” Sansa says, not for the first time, either. “I also know that I can’t, not if I want to turn this internship into a career and, you know, pay my bills and all that.”

“Pay for pasta, too.” Theon grins when she shoots him a glare, and pecks her on the cheek, fingers still working at her shoulder blades. “Come on, love, why don’t you leave this for a bit? Come have a cuddle with me on the couch, I’m much better company than penne.”

“You going to snog the bad mood out of me?” she wants to know, teasing but clearly curious all the same.

Theon’s hands drop to her waist to hold her still, to murmur “If you’ll let me” right before he kisses her.

He’s only done this twice before (a _real_ kiss, not to her cheek or the top of her head or anywhere else that could mean something less-than-romantic, because that’s what this is, it’s what it’s always been).

The first time had been fast and sloppy and little bit tipsy, when they’d gone to the back patio at the pub so he could have a smoke, but he’d kissed her instead and she’d kissed him back, and that had been all Theon needed to do it a second time, too.

It had been a week later, when he’d worked up the nerve to ask her out. It had taken him ages longer than it rightfully should have, Theon being Theon and all, but this was different. This was _Sansa_ , and he had to do this right. So they’d gone to the beach, dipped their toes in the surf and he’d kissed her at sundown, when the sky painted colours on the water and made Sansa look all shades of pink and gold.

She’d tasted like sweet coconut rum the first time, and cotton candy the next. All he can think about nowadays is what she’ll taste like when he gets the chance to kiss her again.

This time, it’s cherry lip balm and lemon herb tea. His lips coax hers apart, slow and sweet, because it’s like _home_ , kissing Sansa, and he wants to crawl into that feeling and curl up there with her.

She turns in his arms with a low, content sigh, arms wrapping around his neck as his tighten ‘round her waist. He steps on her toes in his eagerness to get closer, but she doesn’t seem to mind it, just meets him in that steadily-growing fervor.

“Alright?” he asks again, this time a little hoarse and muffled into her mouth. His knuckles dig into her lower back, rubbing out the tension there, too.

“Better now.” Sansa’s lips curve beneath his, her fingers run through his hair, mussing up his perpetually-mussed waves further (not that he minds, no, he quite fancies the way his hair looks after she’s had her hands in it). “Thank you.”

Theon chuckles, low and a tad breathless when he plucks another kiss from her.

“Pleasure’s all mine, love.” He sneaks another kiss, this one deeper, more insistent, before he asks, “Reckon I could really make it yours, though, if you like?”

“Cheeky.” But Sansa’s smiling now, eyes brighter than they’d been when he’d first come in. _Happy._ She tugs at one of his curls. “Who needs tremendous amounts of carbs when I’ve got you, though?”

“Just what I was thinking.”

And with that, before she can think to tease him any more, Theon scoops her up into his arms. He turns off the stove with a flick of his wrist before giving her a playful slap on the arse, making her laugh.

“My hero,” she giggles, with a roll of her eyes as he carries her down the hall to her bedroom.

“I’ve always thought so,” he says. “By the way…” He drops her onto her mattress, and drops another kiss to her cheek, too. “We are dating, yeah? That whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing?”

She’s smiling still. _Thank the gods._ “If that’s what you want to call it.”

“Good.” That being said, he yanks the shirt from over his head and tosses it aside. Sansa wolf-whistles and he grins wider. “I do.”

And with that, there’s not much need for talking out all the bad day shit. Theon’s got better uses for his mouth now.

It’s some time still before Sansa’s free from beneath her lecherous mentor’s tutelage but, in the meantime, Theon certainly doesn’t mind kissing all her bad days away. Though he does, admittedly, enjoy all the pasta she makes, too. 


	9. you & me could read a bad romance

**insp. by a list of bad erotic scenes i found on google, so yes all the romance novel excerpts quoted within are things people have written for realsies O.O**

(title: lady gaga, for the most part)

 

* * *

 

**SANSA** : How are you feeling?

**THEON** : like this may very well be my last day on earth

**SANSA** : It’s a head cold, Theon.

**THEON** : :o  
it’s not like you to be so insensitive  
that what you’re going to say in my eulogy?  
‘he was fine but now he’s dead anyway’?

**SANSA** : Yes, actually. ‘It was only a head cold, but Theon insisted upon dying for the drama of it all.’

**THEON** : tasteless

**SANSA** : Besides, I wouldn’t give your eulogy, I don’t think. That’s a family obligation, isn’t it?

**THEON** : ha! the best i could hope for is yara, and she’d probably just talk about how even in death i’m wasting eveybody’s time  
and anyway it’s MY funeral sansa  
i want your hot mouth to eulogize me

**SANSA** : What a strange compliment. I’d blame it on the fever, but you’re always saying things like that.

**THEON** : not my fault you’re so fit  
so you gonna bring that fit arse over here and feed me some soup?

**SANSA** : Why, so you can try to take my pants off again?

**THEON** : ……yes

**SANSA** : You need to /rest/.

**THEON** : you know it’s really unfair that i catch cold a week after we started dating  
i mean, this is our trial run, isn’t it?  
i can’t convince you to never leave me when my ability to use my mouth on you has been COMPROMISED

**SANSA** : Oh, calm down. I’m not leaving you.

**THEON** : well just to be sure you’d better come over and let me take your bra off

**SANSA** : You’re dehydrated. Drink some fluids.

**THEON** : alas the only thing that can quench my thirst is you

**SANSA** : Oh, HA.

**THEON** : excuse me but i’m trying to woo you here  
don’t mock me

**SANSA** : I can be there after I’m off work.

**THEON** : i’ll be dead by then

**SANSA** : Again, it’s a /head cold/, Theon.

**THEON** : i’ll be dead of boredom, then

**SANSA** : Nice try, but I brought over a whole canvas bag of things for you to do last night. Crosswords, DVDs, and a pile of truly terrible romance novels Arya has been supplying me with as gag gifts over the years.

**THEON** : i’m already thirsty for you sansa as we’ve just established  
don’t make it worse

**SANSA** : Trust me, these could not possibly turn anybody on. Not even you.

**THEON** : oi  
what’s THAT supposed to mean???

**SANSA** : That you’re incredibly easy.

**THEON** : i feel as though i should be offended

**SANSA** : No, that’s alright, it makes me feel incredibly irresistible in turn.

**THEON** : you ARE

**SANSA** : xx Thank you. Now go on, flip through some of those books, give yourself a laugh while I’m stuck here balancing Margaery’s books like the good business partner I am.

**THEON** : :(

**SANSA** : I’ll take my trousers off and get in bed with you later if you do.

**THEON** : :D

*****

**THEON** : good god have you really read all of these??

**SANSA** : Not all the way through, no. I’ve got a much larger collection of ones I actually like, but I can’t sit through any of those. Sometimes Arya and I get drunk and read pages for a few laughs, but that’s about it.

**THEON** : can i please PLEASE sansa send you excerpts i can’t handle this by myself it’s not near as much fun  
actually nothing’s near as much fun without you

**SANSA** : You absolutely planned that. Sneaky.

**THEON** : i did  
but i MEAN IT

**SANSA** : Mhmm. Go on, then.

**THEON** : thank you you are a precious gift xxxxxxxxxxx

**THEON** : ‘His finger, weathered and rough from years on the ranch, danced in and out of her nose like a slimy ballerina’

**SANSA** : I immediately regret agreeing to this. Definitely haven’t read that one. Why is his finger in her nose?

**THEON** : i’m too afraid to ask  
couldn’t even read any more of that one  
so  
to the next

**THEON** : ‘As she kissed her way down his manly chest, he felt his Amalgamated Crane Company stock increasing in value.’

**SANSA** : …Is that meant to be a euphemism?

**THEON** : reckon so. ‘amalgamated crane company stock’ is what I call my cock, too

**SANSA** : How dreadful.

**THEON** : says the woman who’s bought all the shares  
(i’d wriggle my eyebrows but it’s not good for the headache)  
(also you can’t even see me so why bother)

**SANSA** : I can’t believe you’ve found a way to make this flirtatious.

**THEON** : oh i’ve got more, too —  
‘Her embrace made his manhood swell like week-old roadkill on hot asphalt in the Georgia sun.’  
^^^^ that’s how i feel about you

**SANSA** : I’ve never been so thoroughly romanced in all my life.

**THEON** : GOOD

**SANSA** : :*

**THEON** : :* x10  
‘His body was hard — not hard like Milosevic, the Serbian strongman, but hard like the marble on your shower floor, when you fall and bang your knee.’

**SANSA** : I don’t even know what that means

**THEON** : NEITHER DO I

**SANSA** : Why compare someone’s body to the bathroom floor when you could compare them to actual muscle?

**THEON** : the real question, my love, is where d’you think my body lands on this spectrum?

**SANSA** : I don’t know. Gumby?

**THEON** : jakdhdkkssjdjdajdjf  
GUMBY????

**SANSA** : What? You’re lanky.

**THEON** : i am absolutely never getting naked in front of you now my god you’ve killed my confidence

**SANSA** : Nooooo you’ve got to take your shirt off for me!

**THEON** : what’s the POINT

**SANSA** : You’ve got delicious back muscles.

**THEON** : oh  
well  
in that case…  
i rescind my previous statement

**SANSA** : :) Now, keep sexting me with godawful erotica.

**THEON** : this doin’ anything for you, really?

**SANSA** : It’s making me laugh, and I always want to snog you when you’re making me laugh. Even when you’re ill and I should know better.

**THEON** : gods  
YES  
alright, then

**THEON** : ‘She liked to do it more than once, and he was usually able to comply. Bourbon was his gasoline. Between sessions, he poured it at the counter while she lay panting on the sheets. Sweat burnished her body. The lean neck. The surprisingly full breasts. He would down another glass and return.’

**SANSA** : Not the worst, actually, somehow, but… ‘surprisingly full breasts’? What’s surprising about that? Is that how you feel about mine?

**THEON** : now sansa you know i can’t think straight when i’m looking at your tits  
it’s why i so seldom get any thinking done  
so i can’t even begin to articulate it  
couldn’t i just feel you up instead?

**SANSA** : I’ll take your temperature when I come over and decide if you’re up for it.

**THEON** : if that’s all it takes then i’m jumping in an ice bath RIGHT NOW

**SANSA** : You will do no such thing.

**THEON** : you’re right, i don’t even have a bath tub it’s just a shower  
ah well  
moving on

**THEON** : ‘He locked their pelvises together and ground his hips against hers, side to side, up and down, round and round, until he felt the walls of her vagina tighten around his cock again, gnawing like an insatiable predator demanding more from him, all of him.’

**SANSA** : *shudders* Vagina dentata.

**THEON** : please, never do that to me

**SANSA** : I make no promises.

**THEON** : :O  
actually, you know what  
you’re really hot  
worth it

**SANSA** : Again with the flirting.

**THEON** : okay why don’t you tell me more about my delicious back muscles, hmmmmmmmmmmmmm??

**SANSA** : Don’t remind me, else I won’t care about your temperature at all and make you strip for me as soon as I walk in the door.

**THEON** : ::heart eyes::

**SANSA** : Which, by the by, will be soon. Leaving the shop now. Should be there in about ten.

**THEON** : time for one more, then

**SANSA** : Lay it on me, sugar.

**THEON** : gods first of all, i love it when you call me that  
second:::  
‘Then he felt Anezka slide down before him to the floor, felt her hands grab his naked buttocks and draw him to her. “Come, sonny boy!” he heard her whisper, and with a smile he let go.’

**SANSA** : Oh my god, WHAT?

**THEON** : would it be too much to ask for you to cut that ten minutes in half?  
i’ve got to have you now

**SANSA** : LOL. That one do it for you, then?

**THEON** : forget ‘sugar’  
call me ‘sonny boy’ and i’ll marry you TODAY

**SANSA** : Mhmmmmm not dying of a cold or boredom anymore, are you?

**THEON** : hardly  
that was a gas and i didn’t think it was possible for me to adore you more but here we are   
though i am still terribly dehydrated  
you best hurry it up  
need to quench my sansa thirst

**SANSA** : I’m stopping to get you a Gatorade.

**THEON** : ugh FINE  
you still taking your trousers off and getting in bed with me?

**SANSA** : Of course I am.

**THEON** : gonna let me take your bra off, too?

**SANSA** : Negotiable.

**THEON** : i’ll take it  
see you soon, anezka  
;*

**SANSA** : XD xx


	10. tomato soup

**prompt: robb finds theon + sansa with a baby and panics**

_for @joygreys_

 

* * *

 

“What is _that_?” Robb demands, aghast, pointing at the grey ball of fluff rolling around in the middle of the lounge.

“A dog.” Somehow Sansa manages to draw out those two innocuous words, slowly, as though, judging by his current behaviour, she thinks her brother won’t quite follow.

Robb raises a skeptical brow. “It looks like a giant dust bunny.”

Theon gasps, offended. He scoops the thing up into the protective cradle of his arms. “His _name_ is Tomato Soup, and you’ll show some respect.”

_“Tomato Soup?”_ Robb echoes, aghast as ever. “What sort of name is that for a — well, what I suppose is a dog, if you insist.”

“We like soup,” Sansa says with a shrug. She scratches the dog behind its floppy little ears, a soft look in her eye.

“What do you mean, _we_?” Robb asks accusingly without outright accusing them of anything just yet, but if she means what he thinks she means, then _that_ means…

No. Robb shakes himself of the ridiculous notion. No, that can’t be it.

But then Theon and Sansa exchange a look, gazes just as soft on each other as Sansa’s had been on the puppy, but there’s something… _else_ there as well. Something deep and fond and —

_No. No fecking way._

“She means… _we_.” Theon turns to look at him, Tomato Soup wriggling gleefully against his chest. “Listen, mate, I just… I really fancy your sister, alright?”

Robb gapes at him. “So you _got a dog_? Fuck me, you might as well’ve knocked her up!”

Sansa rolls her eyes and Theon huffs, “Trust me, it’s not for lack of effort, but she reckons we ought to date for more than six months before I start trying to put a baby in her, so” — he bounces the dog a bit — “we got this baby instead.”

The explanation hardly registers before Robb bursts out, _“SIX MONTHS?!”_

Tomato Soup offers a little _yip!_ , Theon grins sheepishly, and Sansa sighs.

“Well,” she says, with another one of those looks at Theon — Robb’s best mate, of all people, what the _hell_ , how did this _happen_? — “I suppose we’ve got some explaining to do, then.”

It’s another hour and a lot of intrusive questions (several of which he winds up regretting after he’s asked them) later but, by the time Sansa drops Tomato Soup into his arms for a cuddle, Robb thinks that playing uncle to this little dust bunny might not be so bad, after all.


	11. a letter for a lollipop

**dialogue prompt: ‘did you get my letter?’**

_for @heartsbanes_

 

* * *

 

When Sansa asks the question — _Did you get my letter?_ — all twitching fingers and the nervous furrow of her delicately drawn eyebrows, the curiosity blooms bright and incorrigible in Theon’s chest.

“You wrote me a letter?”

She rolls her eyes; whether it’s at him or herself, he doesn’t know. “Well, not quite. More of a… Valentine’s card, you know.”

Colour Theon’s interest decidedly _piqued_.

_“Reeeeeally?”_ He grins, wide and self-indulgent. “Write me a love letter, did you?”

“Oh, stop.” Her eye-roll is definitely for his sake this time. “It could be a lollipop attached to a bad pun on cheap cardstock for all you know.”

“If that’s not love, what is?” Theon flips through the stack of mail on his counter. “When’d you send it?”

Sansa clears her throat, then lifts her chin, embarrassed yet self-assured as ever. He quite likes that about her. “Might’ve stuck it in your box on my way back from the pub last might.”

This just keeps getting better and better.

“ _Did_ you, now?” And — _ha_ , there it is. Theon unearths a bright purple envelope, about the size of his palm, from the pile of bills and questionable credit card offers. “Ah, no lollipop, though. Bit disappointed.”

“I thought you might say that.” From behind her back and with a flourish, Sansa presents him with one of those comically large rainbow ones that cost something like six pound fifty ( _atrocious_ , but to be fair the things are truly enormous). She holds it aloft, and offers her free hand, palm-up. “Give me the letter, and I’ll give you the lollipop.”

So she’d _planned_ this. Though he is admittedly torn between the two options, Theon is delighted that she’d put so much thought into this. Whatever’s in the purple envelope must be as delicious as the candy with which she’s taunting him.

“You drive a hard bargain, Stark.” Theon sighs as he twirls the envelope between his fingers. “But I really think I ought to know about your uninhibited drunken feelings for me.”

“Oh, come _on_ , Theon,” she snaps, but there’s a flash of panic in her eyes that gives away her real feelings about it. “There’s an awful poem in there and these things” — she brandishes the candy — “are _expensive_.”

“You have a trust fund.”

“I won’t much longer if I’ve got to keep bribing you with obscenely priced lollipops!”

“Alright.” Theon gives in, only because he can’t bear to tease Sansa when she’s looking all helpless. But he snatches the envelope back when she makes a grab for it. “On one condition.”

For all her lip-chewing worry, Sansa manages to lift a sardonic eyebrow at him. “You need something more than candy, really? Since when?”

“Since I fancy you, too,” he says, breezy, like it’s obvious (which, Theon thinks, it bloody well _is_ ).

Sansa blinks (clearly, it wasn’t so obvious to her). “Oh.”

“Don’t look so surprised, love.” Theon drops the card into her hand and plucks the lollipop from her other one. “All I need to know is that that’s what that letter said, more or less. I’ll let you take your awful poetry to the grave, if I must.”

“Ah.” Sansa fiddles with the purple edges of her reclaimed, rum-induced impulse decision. “Yes, well, there might’ve been something in here about wanting to swim in the endless depths of your eyes, so if you think that’s about how much I fancy you, well…”

She clears her throat. “I suppose you’ve got the right of it, then.”

Theon grins around the ridiculously large lollipop in his mouth. “Oh, now I’ve _got_ to read that card, go on, give it back.”

“Not a chance. You’ve already slobbered all over that lollipop, you’re not getting the letter back as well.”

“I’ll be slobbering all over you once I’m finished, too.”

“That’ll take you at least an hour to get through.”

“Not if I bite it.”

“Theon, _don’t_ bite it. I can wait.”

It turns out, however, that Theon can’t.

But, he thinks when he’s got his hands in her hair and her mouth under his, kissing Sansa’s absolutely worth the chipped tooth.


	12. hopeless denial by way of chicken noodle

**insp. by alfie allen’s EW interview in which he said on the subject of theonxsansa: ‘i didn’t even know that was being spoken about! it was probably just the soup. the soup was great, we were probably just into the soup.’**

 

* * *

 

 **BRAN** : So how long have you been hopelessly pining for my sister?

 **THEON** : _typing…_

 **THEON** : _typing…_

 **THEON** : i have no idea what you’re talking about  
i didn’t even know you had a sister

 **BRAN** : Nice execution. Why do you have her Instagram bookmarked on your laptop, then?

 **THEON** : _typing…_

 **THEON** : i was hacked

 **BRAN** : Must’ve been bodysnatched, too, since you brought her the world’s largest thermos of homemade soup and she’s not even sick.

 **THEON** : i was  
bodysnatched, i mean  
and also she has a cold

 **BRAN** : She sneezed a grand total of two times.

 **THEON** : NO it was four times

 **BRAN** : A-HA!

 **THEON** : ………damn it

 **BRAN** : So where are you taking her on the honeymoon?

 **THEON** : it’s just soup, bran

 **BRAN** : With twice as many noodles.

 **THEON** : THAT’S HOW SHE LIKES HER SOUP  
SO WHAT

 **BRAN** : No need to SHOUT.  
You’re being awfully defensive for someone who’s at Sansa’s beck and call for “just soup.”

 **THEON** : i am none of those things

 **BRAN** : Ha!  
You love her.

 **THEON** : just because i think sansa deserves a thermos of my homemade soup to strengthen her immune system so that she’s not miserable and bedridden for a week doesn’t mean i love her

 **BRAN** : Mhmmm.

 **THEON** : FURTHERMORE  
i mean  
who wants to see her miserable? why aren’t we all doing literally everything we can to stop her encroaching congestion?

 **BRAN** : What do you want us to do, launch ourselves in front of her so that we might intercept invisible germs as if they were bullets or an oncoming train?

 **THEON** : now you’re just making me sound stupid

 **BRAN** : You really don’t need my help with that, actually. You’re the one who brought her the soup.

 **THEON** : yes  
just soup!!!!!  
just because i maybe looked at her for a little longer than was strictly necessary doesn’t mean it was anything more than just soup  
i just wanted to make sure she was happy  
with the soup  
obviously

 **BRAN** : Obviously.

 **THEON** : piss off, bran

 **BRAN** : Again with the hostility.

 **THEON** : i don’t want her to get sick  
she hates being sick

 **BRAN** : Everyone hates being sick.  
Where was your thermos of abhorrently over-noodled soup when Arya had the flu last month?

 **THEON** : arya and i share a very intense mutual disrespect  
she would have thrown that soup right in my face  
sansa however would never do that to me

 **BRAN** : Is the soup a metaphor for your scalding hot noodly love for her?

 **THEON** : what is NOODLY LOVE???

 **BRAN** : Idk you tell me.

 **THEON** : it was a GESTURE OF FRIENDSHIP  
soup is not romantic  
it’s entirely platonic  
nothing more nothing less  
just friendly

 **BRAN** : ~Friendly~

 **THEON** : i don’t know what those little squiggles are implying but i don’t care for it

 **BRAN** : They’re noodly love.  
They look a bit like noodles, don’t they?

 **THEON** : i’m afraid to answer that  
i’m sure you’ll take whatever i say and turn it into an admission of my love for sansa  
which i DON’T HAVE, by the way

 **BRAN** : Sure you don’t.

 **THEON** : i mean  
okay so  
i love her, of course  
but as a friend  
a friend who wants her to have soup so she doesn’t get sick

 **BRAN** : Okay.

 **THEON** : because she needs someone to take care of her  
you know sansa, she’s always so busy taking care of everyone else that sometimes she forgets about her needs  
and she needs like, electrolytes or some shit idk whatever’s in the soup that helps to prevent illness  
and she’ll forget that for herself  
so i’m just here to make sure that she gets what she needs

 **BRAN** : And what she needs is your very coveted, super secret recipe for chicken noodle.

 **THEON** : yes  
and if there was anything else she needed, then i’d, you know, give that to her too  
like if she gets sick anyway i can bring her sports drinks or topical ointments or a heating pad or  
um  
whatever else

 **BRAN** : More soup?

 **THEON** : yes ofc more soup

 **BRAN** : Cups of hot steaming passionate love.

 **THEON** : SOUP

 **BRAN** : …is just another four-letter word for ‘besotted fool.’

 **THEON** : i’m not a FOOL

 **BRAN** : Ah, but you are besotted, then.

 **THEON** : _typing…_

 **THEON** : why do you even care??

 **BRAN** : I just think it’s stupid to love someone and not tell them.  
What a waste of everybody’s time.

 **THEON** : are you really trying to guilt me into telling sansa something i have no business telling her?

 **BRAN** : If that’s what works, yes.

 **THEON** : look, i  
i’m not good enough to love her, alright?  
i’m good enough to bring her soup and that’s about it

 **BRAN** : Well, that’s stupid, too.

 **THEON** : ??????

 **BRAN** : You’ve spent the better part of ten minutes explaining to me how much you want to take care of her, and you don’t think you’re good enough to love her?  
Prime idiocy, mate.  
You have truly transcended.

 **THEON** : _typing…_

 **BRAN** : I mean, if you think there’s anyone else who cares more about her, or anyone who could love her better, then by all means just sit back and wait for that person to come sweep her off her feet while you sit there and watch because you’re too scared to do it yourself.

 **THEON** : NOW who’s being hostile??

 **BRAN** : I am trying to SCARE YOU STRAIGHT.

 **THEON** : i can’t stop her from wanting someone else

 **BRAN** : Yeah, and you can’t stop her from wanting you, either. Especially if you keep bringing her “just soup.”

 **THEON** : wait  
she wants me?

 **BRAN** : Like I said… prime idiocy, you.

 **THEON** : bran  
WHAT DO YOU KNOW

 **BRAN** : Everything.  
Or, well, enough to know that you should stop talking to me and maybe pop by Sansa’s again.  
I’ve been listening to that ‘Matchmaker’ song from /Fiddler on the Roof/ this whole time  
to keep myself in the mood and now I think it’ll be stuck in my head forever.

 **THEON** : _typing…_

 **THEON** : i have to go

 **BRAN** : Yes, that’s what I’ve been saying.

*****

When Theon skids to a stop outside Sansa’s flat, he has to brace one hand on the doorframe while the other raps impatiently against the polished but absolutely fake cherry wood. He’s out of breath, wheezing like all those casual ciggies have finally caught up to him, which is probably exactly what’s happened.

Sansa opens the door by the seventeenth-or-so knock — he was knocking _fast_ — and greets him with a concerned “Theon, are you alright?”

“No.” He’s panting over _one word_ , but he’s got more to say so fuck it. “I love you.”

He’s not looking at her when he says it. He’s bent over, hands on his knees, though he knows that’s hardly the best way to catch his breath but he’s halfway to collapsing so this is much easier.

It’s quiet for a moment. Theon wonders what she’s thinking. He can imagine the expression of abject horror on her face, though, so he doesn’t press. He just concentrates on his scuffed boots and counts to ten.

“You — what?” Sansa chokes out, tremulous and confused. Which isn’t near as bad as he expected, so maybe this was an alright idea, after all.

Theon glances up to find her blushing, eyes wide, hands twisting in the hem of her shirt.

“I love you,” he says again, because it’s too late to take it back. “It wasn’t just soup. I’m in love with you.”

“I —” She fumbles over her burgeoning smile. “Well, I love you, too, Theon, but what’s this got to do with soup?”

Still hunched over and half-dying, Theon manages his own smile, all labored breaths and soothing, sweet relief. “I put in the extra noodles to convince you that I’m worth marrying someday.”

“Did you, now?” Sansa laughs, a little on the breathless side herself now. She helps him up, so that he’s standing straight and she can push the hair back from his sweaty face. (He doesn’t know why he bloody _ran_ all the way here, really, only that it felt urgent enough to do so.) “Well, that was rather a waste of noodles, because I already thought so.”

“Alright. Well. Good.” Theon nods. His chest still hurts, but it’s in sort of a good way now. “That’s good, then. I should probably kiss you now, shouldn’t I?”

“If your lungs can take it…” Sansa smooths a hand over his chest, settles it over the rapid pace of his heart. “Then, yeah, I suppose you should.”

She tastes like chicken broth, and Theon’s definitely going to quit smoking, just so he can sprint to her place and kiss her without having to pause for breath ever again.

*****

**THEON** : by the way

 **THEON** : //thank you//

 **BRAN** : ~ Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match  
Find me a find  
Catch me a catch… ~


End file.
